


Enough

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Holding Hands, becoming friends, haymitch and effie might kinda not hate each other that much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He sighs and sinks back into the cushions, dragging a hand over his face tiredly and she thinks maybe she can help, offer some small comfort in the face of a difficult situation. Two professionals – Mentor and Escort, standing solid, together, as their tributes wash the screens in blood."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, but I just can't stop writing these two idiots.

He knows he’s supposed to be watching the screen, keeping an eye on Katniss as she shimmies up a tree like a squirrel, but for the love of everything he _can’t stop staring at her hands._

Effie is sitting next to him on the little couch in the private viewing room for District 12, just as dolled up as usual—her clothes and hair are pristine, her makeup done up to the height of Capital fashion.

But it isn’t her makeup or her clothes Haymitch can’t keep his eyes off of – it’s her hands. Her long painted nails are tapping anxiously against her leg. Occasionally they skitter off and down her thigh only to return to tap against her leg again. They jump from thigh to thigh, her left hand leaping up to meet her right as she wrings them together fearfully, a small noise escaping her as something dangerous would happen on screen.

Sometimes, he notices, her hand leaps towards his, as though she is going to grab his hand, or maybe his thigh, going to turn to him and sigh in relief, her eyes shining as she leans close, murmuring words of comfort, of encouragement, of—

Haymitch makes a growling noise in the back of his throat and grabs her hand in his own, yanking it down to rest on the sofa between them.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” he snaps irritably, keeping his eyes on the screen, watching Katniss as she gets settled into the branches of the tree she’s planning on sleeping in that night. He can feel Effie, stiff and immobile, next to him, her hand limp with shock in his. He refuses to look over, refuses to acknowledge that anything might be strange about this situation.

Suddenly, something happens on screen—it’s one of the other tributes, walking dangerously close to Katniss’ tree—and Effie’s fingers tighten around his as she gasps slightly. Haymitch squeezes back, and just like that, the tension is broken; the two sit there, shoulder to shoulder, eyes glued to the screen with their hands clasped tightly between them.

It is several minutes later before they realize the intimacy of their position. Effie is first, her cheeks slowly warming to a burn as she realizes that his thumb is making circuits over her knuckles, soft and gentle, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. She glances sideways at him through her lashes, taking in the tightness in his face, the way his lips move slightly as he watches Katniss on screen, the small almost imperceptible flinches, simple movements that belie how much he actually has grown to care about their tributes this year, no matter what he may say.

He sighs and sinks back into the cushions, dragging a hand over his face tiredly and she thinks maybe she can help, offer some small comfort in the face of a difficult situation. Two professionals – Mentor and Escort, standing solid, together, as their tributes wash the screens in blood.

She squeezes his hand, gentle but firm, keeping the pressure steady for several seconds before relaxing her fingers.

Haymitch’s eyes blink open and he stares at the ceiling, eyes flicking over the cream-colored tiles, before he clears his throat and looks down at their clasped hands.

It’s an interesting contrast – his hand is tanned, and there’s dark dirt underneath his fingernails, which are rough and uneven. There’s a scratch on his thumb and a pattern of barely noticeable freckles dotted near his wrist.

Effie’s hand is slim and pale white without a single blemish or freckle. There’s a golden chain dangling from her wrist and a tiny ring on her middle finger. Her fingernails are long and neatly filed, painted bright pink to match her hair.

They couldn’t be more different.

Haymitch flexes his fingers and doesn’t say a word, returning his gaze to the screen. Katniss is arranging the branches in her tree around her body to best camouflage her hiding place.

They stay immobile on the couch for several minutes, silently keeping watch over their tributes, connected invisibly by the girl with the braid and the boy with the bread who might just be able to do what no other District 12 tribute had done for years – live.

Of course, the moment breaks – people filter into the room to congratulate District 12 on their performance so far, always with an incredulous tone, like they’re stunned that District 12 is somehow still in the running, and Effie stands with a smile and a gracious nod. Haymitch’s hand follows her up until she needs to step away and can’t, tethered to the couch by the comforting touch.

They release each other like they’re on fire, and Haymitch stands to get a drink. Effie wrinkles her nose and _honestly, Haymitch, a drink now?_ and _mind yer own business, woman_ and everything is once again safe and familiar and easy.

Never mind the sweat on his palm that’s cooling as he uncorks the whiskey, or that she doesn’t seem to know where to put her hand. It reaches for her hair, just touching a curl before dropping down to smooth the fabric of her skirt.

Never mind that the next time they sit together, it’s far easier to bridge those inches of cushion and lock their fingers together.

It doesn’t ease the arguments – the bickering, the push and pull and constant compromise, the tension between them that strains so tightly that it threatens to snap at any moment – but it helps.

And for those brief moments, together on the sofa drenched in tension and fear, it’s enough.


End file.
